Culling

The evening was cold and wet with thick snowflakes descending from the sky and coating London under a heavy cloud. This late in November more than a few snowstorms were expected in fact overdue considering this was the first true heavy snowstorm of winter. Many of the residents of London were residing inside their toasty warm homes or seeking shelter in a nice warm pub with a pint for company.

Despite the weather, a short wizard with bandy legs trudges through the snow. His long, straggly ginger hair hangs over his shoulders while his bloodshot baggy brown eyes peer through the puffy clouds of falling snow. Mundungus Fletcher's face was unshaved as usual and reeked of tobacco and cheap gin. However, he didn't have much of a choice as he and his other cohorts had been summoned by the Potentate of London, Sanderson.

Scratching his scruffy face with one grimy finger, Mundungus pensively wonders as to the reason why he had been summoned along with the various others as they petty criminals. The courier hadn't gone into detail beyond demanding that his presence was required by the Potentate of London. Still, it was mighty odd as he knew he wasn't the only one being summoned. It surely must be something big otherwise the Potentate of London would not have gathered the entire portion of London's underworld.

The closer that Mundungus drew near to the Monarch Pub the more similar styled individuals began to appear all trudging through the falling snow towards the Monarch Pub. The usually smoke-filled pub is empty of its usual gambling, loud, rowdy patrons. The bar and pub tables are devoid of occupants except for two burly wizards. A brawny wizard with a large forehead, Hyde glares fiercely at those entering with his arms folded over his chest. His brother, Floyd, a beady-eyed, beefy wizard grunts, "The boss is waiting for all of you downstairs in the pit," and gestured with his head towards the doors in the back that led down into the cellar.

Mundgungus wasn't the one to felt wary at the uttered words as more than a few individuals gulped rather loudly including a rather pudgy wizard with a beard and bowler hat worn on top of his round head to cover his rather pale bald head. Gittins gulps again and nervously clutches his bowler hat in his hands. He hesitantly trails after Mundugus before Gittins wrinkles his nose at the unwashed stink and takes a step back trying not to breathe in the putrid stench. He wasn't the only one as the rest of the crowd standing behind the rank wizard gave Mundungus a wide berth.

Mundungus hesitates at the top of the dark stone stairs dimly lit by flickering fiery torches. After a moment, he steps forward as the rest hesitantly follow at a distance lest they choke on Mundungus's rancid stench. The passage air is bitterly cold and only grows as they descended deeper and deeper beneath the Monarch Pub. The deeper the crowd descends the more silent and fretfully they began. There were countless rumors of what occurred within the depths of the cellar beneath the Monarch Pub, but none of the rumors could be confirmed for it was openly said that only dead men went in and never came back out.

Puffs of air can be seen with their every breath as they descend into the frigid cellar. A few members shiver and tug their tattered cloaks closer about them. No one dares speak lest their whispers echo down the passageway and reach the ears of those who waited down below.

In the past, Sanderson had even been known to employ werewolves, a pair of twin dark-skinned brothers descended from a powerful voodoo witch that had resided on one of the island nations of the new continent. The twin dark brothers had been powerful, muscular enforcers, but they had most mysteriously disappeared shortly after the cure of werewolfism had been found. Rumor had it that the Peterson twins had fled others said that Sanderson had them killed lest they spill his secrets. In the end, no one knew except for the fact that the twin brothers had descended down below into the cellar and none in their circles had seen nary a glimpse of them since.

After some time, they at long last reached the floor of the cellar. Beneath the pub, there lay an enormous cellar used to house trafficked products. The usually full cellar is completely empty and devoid of any product to the surprise of many. This only served to confirm in the minds of many that Sanderson had been only incurring losses ever since the creation of the A.P.D. It was only a matter of time before the Potentate of London fell.

Too busy plotting on how to abandon the rapidly sinking ship, none noticed the scuff marks across the stone floor where large crates had once sat. The scuff marks were recent suggesting that the crates had only been recently moved away. The entire warehouse had been emptied not too long ago and all that remained of the trafficked cargo were empty wooden barrels stacked precariously against the wall.

Mundungus blinks in surprise upon noticing the large group of individuals already waiting quietly down below. Those following Mundungus wince at the sudden stench filling their nostrils, before noticing the silent crowd. Mundungus and those following him scurry over and begin to urgently whisper and discuss the reason for their presence. Some said that the summons had arrived many days ago, while others had only been summoned that very day. A few of the more bloodthirsty members gleefully hissed that Sanderson had finally grown tired of the Ministry of Magic's interference and especially of the eyesore from the A.P.D. It would seem that at long last, Sanderson would be making his move. Others whispered that Sanderson had grown weak and afraid of the Ministry of Magic's power and sought to retire whilst he still could. Yet despite the gossip none of them had any choice but to adhere to the summons from Sanderson.

The minutes continue to trickle by as more and more members arrive until the stream of arrivals trickled down to none. Mundungus scratched more at his chin causing it to redden, while Gittins flexed his bowler hat hard enough to create a serious dent in the velvet hat. They weren't the only ones that waited in apprehension as others shifted nervously on their feet causing their clothes to rustle. The tension seems to slowly boil until tempers are ready to flare out when sharp, precise set of footsteps can be heard echoing down the stairs. Suddenly, loud swallows can be heard from dry mouths as they intently turn to gaze at the stone staircase.

Leading down the winding staircase the first to be glimpsed is the Monarch Pub bartender Bertram. The tall, slender bartender emerges with an aloof expression on his face, but none of those present dared to undermine him. He was well known to be the second-in-command of Sanderson for all these years. That was not an easy position to acquire much less keep with his neck still intact for so many years.

Footsteps continue to echo down the staircase leaving their gazes to remain fixed upon the stone winding staircase. The very air seems to become that much frigid as a shorter figure emerges around the bend, it was Sanderson, the Potentate of London. At first appearance, the weathered old wizard appeared to be a kindly old man with neatly trimmed hair and handwoven wool sweaters.

Yet that was not the appearance of the Sanderson today. He was not wearing his lesser disguise, but rather appeared as the Potentate of London. He wore black from head to toe. It was not his color scheme that was so deadly, but rather the fierce quality to wolfish eyes that revealed the hungry, ravenous wolf found within. Many of those present dropped their heads in a bow and lowered their gazes lest they draw further unwanted attention to themselves.